


A Strong Distinction

by dadmilkman



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 11:59:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6050871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dadmilkman/pseuds/dadmilkman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Protecting your friends isn’t foolish, in my books,” Hawke said. Fenris watched the flames dance in the hearth, and failed to notice how Hawke’s gaze lingered on his face. "Would you not do the same for someone you cared about?"</p>
<p>PLEASE NOTE: This is indeed a repost. See notes for details.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Strong Distinction

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally the second chapter of another work, but I decided I liked it better as a stand alone work. Sorry for any confusion. Most likely (although I'll see what happens) this one won't have another chapter, so for now I've marked it as completed.

Dirty, and more than not worse for wear, but it was still a good blade. Fenris passed the dagger to and fro between his hands, feeling the way the hardened leather grip had molded to his palms over time. He ran a thumb along the edge to smudge off a bit of dried blood and debris before holstering it at his side. Often he would find himself in the markets of Hightown contemplating the purchase of a new blade for his arsenal. But the one he carried now he was particularly partial towards. It was given to him, a small token of thanks he’d received many, many years previous. Through careful dedication and scrupulous cleaning he had managed to lengthen the life of the blade well past its intended usable period. He often saved it for the final blow of the kill, allowing his less sentimental knives to bear the weight of the work like a hardened bludgeon.  

  
It had been a gift. Along his travels, Hawke had seen the blade for sale in a small town near the border of the Waking Sea. He explained the craftsmanship and style reminded him of the blades you would find in Ferelden, and hoped to pass along the nostalgia. Fenris had never been there, but despite this he thought of it with fondness. Hawke spoke of Ferelden with wide eyed enthusiasm. The way the sun sets over the hill tops, how the trees are most beautiful in the fall, how the rivers and ponds freeze solid in the winter and the snow keeps everyone indoors for days at a time. More often he spoke of his family. His mother baking fresh bread and brewing tea on chilly mornings to ease away the cold. His father had taught him a spell to help flowers grow bigger and brighter, and he spoke of the way his mothers face would light up when he would present her with a bouquet of daisies.

  
Fenris had no such memories of Tevinter, and thus did not consider it his home. As such, he did not quite appreciate the thought of tying himself down to one homestead. Fenris lived a rather nomadic life, carrying few possessions and never residing in one town or city for too long. He attributed it to his fear of discovery by his former master, but perhaps it was his desire for independence more than anything that kept him on the move. When you settle, you become familiar. And as they say “familiarity breeds contempt”.

 

Yet Hawke spoke of his home country with such reverence and passion that Fenris couldn’t help share some of those feelings, even if he had never personally traveled so far south. Fenris respected Hawke, and thus respected his opinions, even if he did not always agree or understand. He knew the dagger was simply that; a dagger. But the weight of memories and sentiment it carried behind it was such that he kept it close and considered it very dear to him.

  
Once, after the heat of battle, Hawke had stopped to comment on Fenris meticulously cleaning his blade.   
“That thing?” He asked, as if he’d forgotten about its existence. “I can’t believe you still have that. Maker, I gave it to you ages ago.”

  
“Yes.” Fenris replied. He ran a hand over the holster as if in defense. “It was a gift. I do not intend to waste it.” Hawke shook his head at that.

  
“Maybe when we get back to Hightown I can take you shopping. Perhaps the time has come to replace it after all these years.” Hawke glanced at the small pile of bodies littered at their feet, and reconsidered. “Not that it hasn’t served you well enough, I suppose.”

  
Fenris hummed in disapproval, taking stride beside Hawke as they descended the path towards town. The two of them had spent the early morning clearing raiders pitched off the trails of the wounded coast. Fenris watched his feet as he walked, an old habit he’d yet to break. While he picked his way down with care around the rocks and debris on the trail, Hawke loped forward. He lazily kicked stones and twigs underfoot.   
  


“Rather, I think maybe it is you that needs the new weapon,” Fenris said, glancing at the mage’s staff strapped to to Hawke’s back. He had attempted a few sloppy patch jobs but it needed to replacement. Fenris had once asked Hawke why he didn’t repair it with magic, but Hawke had explained it wasn’t quite that simple. He proceeded to delve into the intricacies of the limits of magic, but when it was clear Fenris had no understanding he likened it to attempting to pick up the chair you were sitting on, saying “It just doesn’t work that way, I’m afraid.”

  
Fenris would not lie that he had no interest in learning the ways and laws of magic and mages. He had seen his fair share during life in Tevinter and the subject had no appeal for him. But with Hawke, it was admittedly different. The way Hawke’s eyes gleamed like a child’s when discussing magical spells that he found fascinating, or theories that piqued his curiosity. No evil glare was persent, something he had become so accustomed to in Tevinter, the way powerful magisters could stare you into silence. Fenris often believed magic had involvement when he was on the receiving end of such judging eyes. How they could pin you in place by fear alone. The thought made him shudder.

  
But no, Hawke was different. He was still a mage, and Fenris still had plenty of doubts. He was no fool, he knew that not all mages sought after power or control. There were mages like Hawke who earned a living to feed his family with his abilities, despite trying and failing to keep to himself. And even if Fenris hated to admit it to himself, there were mages like Anders, who used his magic to help others. Fenris could applaud his efforts as a healer at the least, even if he was convinced the mage himself was doomed to self corruption or complete demonic possession in the long run.

  
But despite his doubts, Fenris had noticed that his time in Kirkwall had softened his opinion towards mages. If only in the smallest possible amount. Before, he might not have allowed himself to so frequently be in the company of such a large number of mages. The number of them that Hawke kept in his stead were enough. He would even allow Hawke to heal his wounds after battle, keeping eyes on his hands as they did so. He was very far from “rallying for the freedom of oppressed mages across the Free Marches”, as Anders so gracefully stated, but it was a start. Hawke, at least, had proven himself more than capable of compassion and care for others. This was something that mages and magisters in tevinter more often than not lacked.   
  


Fenris told himself it was because of this curiosity towards the mages future, and his debt to Hawke, that he stayed by his side. He supposed that if he asked Hawke to leave, he would not object. He had stated once before that any debt that Fenris had incurred from helping him was payed off long ago . He made it known he didn’t believe there was to be a debt to be had in the first place. Through pride, Fenris had insisted on repaying the favor of Hawke’s labor through following him through jobs that he acquired. But that was many years ago, and an argument could be made against the matter now. Perhaps Fenris had overstayed his welcome, or his debt was repaid in full, or his help was no longer needed.

  
Hawke had as many friends as he had enemies. The benefits of keeping Fenris in company for his skills were more than outweighed by the risks that Hawke incurred by including an ex-slave in his list of fellow mercenaries. Fenris was unsure of the technicalities, but he was certain that Hawke could even be accused of theft for harboring a dangerous runaway. He had voiced his concerns to Hawke before, stating it was foolish for Hawke to request his company on assignments. Of course,  Hawke had brushed them away as though this was clearly not an issue to him.

  
“If the time comes, we fight,” Fenris remembered him saying. They had settled in the lounge room of Hawke's estate, sipping from a bottle of something strong after a hard day. “I have considered the dangers of your former master coming for you here.”

  
Fenris nodded, glad that Hawke understood the risks. Hawke frowned slightly, his eyes softening as if he was speaking to a friend and not just a teammate.

  
“But... I don’t want you to think that’s because I want you leave to spare me the trouble.”

  
Fenris paused, and thought perhaps Hawke wasn’t quite as wise as he had imagined.

  
“We are partners, Fenris,” Hawke continued. He clasped a hand on Fenris’ shoulder, as if in consolance. “You are part of us, if you’d like a place here. I wouldn’t have you running about with a rampant slaver after your ass still on the loose.”

  
Fenris scowled, crossing his arms in frustration. He would never understand Hawke’s constant habit of thinking of others before himself. It was senseless, putting his self in danger for the sake of another.

  
“What will you do, then?” Fenris asked. “What will you do if - no, when - when Denarius comes for me. As I know he will.”

  
“We’ll kill him, I assume,” Hawke replied with a smirk, as nonchalant as he ever was. He paused, and reconsidered. “Or, you can kill him, I mean,” he added, smiling again. “I’m sure you would appreciate it more than I would.”

  
“That, I would,” Fenris replied with a grimace. “And you would walk into the home of a magister and battle him to the death, all for someone else’s gain? That is foolish.”

  
Hawke shrugged, and whether he had taken offence to Fenris’ comment or not, it was unclear.   
“Protecting your friends isn’t foolish, in my books,” he said. Fenris watched the flames dance in the hearth, and failed to notice how Hawke’s gaze lingered on his face. 

"Would you not do the same for someone you cared about?"The question was innocent enough, Fenris supposed, but still he did not know the answer.   
  


“I do not know,” he said finally. “I have never been in a situation where that was necessary.”   
Hawke laughed then, and the hilarity of the conversation lost to Fenris. He was was still wondering how this mages’ logic came to such a conclusion.  

  
“Maybe one day it’ll come to that,” Hawke said in earnest. He made it seem as if he  longed for the arousal of more life-and-death battles. “Maybe then it’ll be you saving my life for once, instead of the other way around.”

 

Fenris rolled his eyes at the depravity of the topic, and Hawke laughed again in response.   
  
The conversation had been years previous, but the way Hawke so truthfully presented himself to Fenris went unnoticed on his part until later consideration. He had, for lack of words, pledged himself to defend Fenris against his former master and against the dangers that followed him - something Fenris had not realized at the time. Before, he had not understood why Hawke would risk so much for someone else. But now, after spending almost five years in his company, Fenris believed he might understand what Hawke had meant.   
  


“Someone you cared about,” Fenris said, remembering his choice of words. He shook his head, but felt his mouth curl into a small smile. The man was foolish, indeed.

 

“What?” Hawke asked, brushing the hair from his eyes. Smudges of blood clung to his face. Fenris realized that he had spoken aloud.

  
“It is nothing,” he answered, but decided to elaborate. “I was remembering a conversation we had a few years ago.”

 

“Is that what you’re grinning about?” he asked with heavy sarcasm. “That I’m as charming as I was back then?”

  
“Yes, I find myself distracted by your elegance,” Fenris said, prodding one of Hawke’s lustrous chuckles.   
  


“Good to know I’ve still got it,” Hawke said happily, and he slung an arm around Fenris’s shoulder. “Listen, you know I’m going to use that against you when I tell stories at wicked grace tonight.”

 

Fenris smiled again, something he found himself doing more of these past few years. Hawke’s arm was heavy against his neck, laden with the power to strike down a hundred slavers in one day. The same man now joked of friendship and card games and delivered witty one-liners. If Hawke were a mage in Tevinter, Fenris worried he would have been a man he had feared. Powerful and able to coerce people into his will. 

 

How easily Hawke could use his Maker-given talents against others, or Fenris himself, to woo them into submission. But of course, this wasn’t the case. If someone was in Hawke’s debt, it was because he had done them a service out of the kindness of his own heart and yet still didn’t expect a payment.   
Fenris closed his eyes and allowed Hawke’s strong grasp to steer them down the path and back towards Kirkwall. Undoubtedly the rest of Hawke’s friends were waiting at the Hanged Man for a round of drinks and cards.

  
Yes, Hawke was a mage. A slippery, foolhardy do-gooder who was merciless to his enemies and solicitous to a fault towards his friends.  He was indeed different. But it was a difference that Fenris didn’t mind.   
  
  
  
  
  


 


End file.
